


Of Sunsets and Shadows

by TrueCaesar



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Game of Thrones Alternate Season 07, Game of Thrones Alternate Season 08, Game of Thrones Alternate Seasons 07-08, Game of Thrones Fix-It, Rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27071365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueCaesar/pseuds/TrueCaesar
Summary: A complete rewrite of seasons 7 & 8 of Game of Thrones, heavily inspired by the books. The War with the dead and for the iron throne will be decided herein! This is not a "couples" story. It is designed to read as an actual rewrite of the final two seasons of the show. I wish I had it in me to go back and redo the last four seasons but, alas, I'm only human.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister & Daenerys Targaryen, Jaime Lannister & Jon Snow, Jaime Lannister & Tyrion Lannister, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Bran Stark, Jon Snow & Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister & Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister & Jon Snow
Comments: 11
Kudos: 15





	Of Sunsets and Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> A complete rewrite of seasons 7 & 8 of Game of Thrones, heavily inspired by the books. If you miss any characters in the opening chapter, fret not. They WILL show up.

_The Silence_ swept in on the midnight tide, black sails hidden beneath black skies as the Iron Fleet, or what remained of it, closed in. The Arbor was not unprepared for their coming. Word had reached them by raven wing some weeks ago about the storm that had rolled over the Shield Islands, flattening them beneath the bloody tide of ironborn reavers raining steel and fire. Lord Redwyne had readied his fleet for war, despite the royal summons he had received to make journey to Kings Landing to pay homage to the new queen. The iron throne must needs wait; he would not leave his precious shores bare for kraken reavers to raid and plunder.

Lord Paxter Redwyne himself held command of the war galley _The Redhand_. He stood above decks, overlooking both men and sea. Some three thousand men all clad in leather and mail held the thirty-five ships the Arbor had brought to bear against the Greyjoy threat. Lord Redwyne was pleased to see that the ironborn held only half that number.

A raven had brought word a few days back that Balon Greyjoy, erstwhile Lord and self-styled King of the Isles had been swept out to see in a tragic accident. Lord Balon’s brother, the long-exiled Euron Crow’s Eye, had swept in the very next day to claim his brother’s seat and driven Lord Balon’s heirs away. Lord Paxter wondered what had become of them. The Crow’s Eye had not claimed in his boast to have killed them, though if even half the rumors about him were true the Lord of the Arbor would not be surprised to learn that he could stoop to kinslaying. Yet even now, it was clear that the Iron Fleet was not at full strength. Had Lord Balon’s children outwitted their uncle with the greater part of the fleet? He gripped hard wood as he gazed out over Whispering Sound. The tolling of bells, long a harbinger of battle, sounded their ominous _GONG_ from the nearby lighthouses.

Their ancient song carried loud over the black sea and made the midnight air resound with a feeling of menace and gloom that filled Paxter with anxiety. _We have the numbers_ , he assured himself. _We will turn the ironborn back from whence they came with steel and fire_.

But a small part of him could not help but feel nervous, and not just with the nerves all men faced in the moments before they gave battle. The Redwyne Fleet was second to none in Westeros, from the crownlands to the Eyrie and south again, patrolling the Reach with calm confidence for century after century. But in the east and north, it was the Iron Fleet that ruled the seas, its reputation as fierce and deserved as the reavers they carried. At full strength, their fleet was equal to Lord Paxter’s own, and some might say superior, for the ironborn were by nature a warlike people.

But that alone was not what gave him pause, for his strength on this night was clearly greater. It was not the fleet itself so much, but the man who led it. Euron Crow’s Eye was among the worst of the reavers, rapers, and thieves the isles had produced since the Conquest. His cruelty and lust for dominance was such that his own brother, twice a rebel himself, could not countenance him, but sent him away beyond the shores of the Seven Kingdoms in exile. Any man who was too extreme for the most extreme lord of the isles in generations was not to be trifled with. And his timing could not be overlooked. No man is so accursed as the kinslayer in the sight of gods and men. Such a man had no scruples, no limitations. There was nothing he would not do. And given strength of any kind, not least a portion of one of Westeros’s top fleets, what he might do with it was a fearful prospect to consider.

Below, the deck was all a-clamor with the sound of shouts, calls to order and formation. Solid boots stomped on wooden planks and the air was filled with the rustle and clink of chainmail, armor, and plate. Many of his men were not outfitted as such, fearing to drown underneath such weight if thrown overboard, but enough of them either didn’t care for the danger or were less concerned about drowning than they were about having their innards ripped out that they were decked out in full battle regalia. Or near enough.

Paxter Redwyne made his way to the fore of the upper deck, tall and resplendent in his lord’s attire. Every eye turned to look at him, and his captains aboard the other vessels were prepared to rouse their men with their own words. _The Redhand_ was at his attention.

“Men!” he gave shout

“The ironborn are at our shores! They are a great fleet when at full strength and when faced with lesser foes…But their strength is neither full, nor their enemy lesser! They have only half our numbers besides….But sneer at them not! If their reaver’s gain access to our shores, if we let them inland when we could have held them back, they will plunder and overturn our fair isle as in the days of old! Each of us they will put to the sword while they rape our wives and daughters, carrying them off as thralls and salt wives! They will kill your sons, or else sell them beyond the Narrow Sea to serve as eunuchs and slave soldiers! These are ironborn reavers no matter what their strength! Show them the strength of the Abor! Show them the power of our fleet! Show them! Show them that we are, and always will be, ripe for victory! Ripe for Victory!”

The soldiers took up the call, shouting “Ripe for Victory!” until the decks echoed with their battle cry. Their great sails showed forth their sigil; a cluster of burgundy grapes on a deep blue background. But in the black of midnight, as the Crow’s Eye approached, their sails seemed as black and gloomy as the night.

Moving ever closer, the Greyjoy Fleet seemed to shine brighter, moonlight giving an ethereal, eerie glow to their captain’s ship. _The Silence_ seemed to glow red on deck, the great yellow kraken of House Greyjoy clearly visible on its single mast, a sinister looking red eye looming above it as if watching the very sea. Paxter Redwyne heard no speeches from that vessel, nor from the others that followed.

It was, in a word, _silent_.

-OOO-

The city was restless in the late afternoon sun, crowds by the hundreds having stopped their work to listen to the latest denunciation delivered from the street corners by itinerant preachers, begging brothers, and septons alike. The city watch, conspicuous by their golden cloaks, patroled the streets in force, breaking up what sermons they could but being beaten back by the mob near as much. Steel may be fine, but steel was little help against mobs of angry peasants aflame with the passion of the gods; something the watch’s captains had been learning the hard way these last few weeks since the queen had issued her Edict of Cessation to the remnants of the Faith Militant.

The sparrows were officially outlawed in the wake of her coup, as were the Warrior’s Sons, but amid the still smoking ruins of the Great Sept of Baelor, the _ideas_ of the Faith Militant now burned even hotter beneath the colossal walls of the Red Keep, where Queen Cersei had ensconced herself.

Pilgrims from throughout the city and from as far as Rosby and Duskendale to the north and Tumbleton and Bitterbridge to the south had descended on the city by the score, by the hundreds, to see the ruins of the holy sept and sacrifice to the memories of the slain. The High Sparrow was, in death, elevated to a status of holiness that far surpassed what he had achieved in life. Worse still, the crowds groaned for their fallen queen, the name _Margary_ a constant prayer on seemingly every lip; man, woman, and child alike.

On every corner, in the market squares, in back alleys, inns, winesinks, and in the open streets, Queen Margary was invoked with reverence, loss, and pity. Here and there some also offered prayers for King Tommen, whose death at so young an age was held up as a tragedy. Some said he pitched himself headlong from the Red Keep when he saw the green flames that had consumed his beloved wife and despaired of living without her. Others whispered that the new queen, Tommen’s own mother, had him thrown from a window to steal his crown. There was little the commons would not believe of Queen Cersei these days.

In every home and hovel, wherever men gathered, there were whispers that even now the lords of the Reach were marshalling their strength to avenge House Tyrell. The Queen of Thorns had returned to Highgarden and had called the banners. Lord Redwyne’s fleet had been spotted in the Stepstones, pushing towards Blackwater Bay. Highgarden was making common cause with Dorne. It seemed that anywhere and everywhere, vengeance against the iron throne was brewing.

In the very shadow of the royal castle, a homely prophet dressed in brown roughspun called down doom on the entirety of House Lannister.

“The lions have savaged fair Westeros from Green Fork to God’s Eye to the very heart of the capital!” he bellowed. “Lord Tywin set the Riverlands aflame and drowned the lives of innocents in blood. Now his daughter blasphemes the holy gods and lifts up sword against the Seven themselves! This lioness is a demoness made flesh who has stolen the very throne on which she sits. Baratheon, _Baratheon_ reads the royal name! Cersei Lannister steps on the bones of King Robert and waters her royal gardens with the blood of her own son! May the Father judge her justly! May the Mother withhold her mercy! Yes, may the fires of all seven hells consume her before she destroys us all with her folly!”

His words were met with loud cheers from the crowds. A squadron of gold cloaks marched forward to put an end to the sermon. The preacher spread his arms in appeal, whether to the gods or to the crowds no one was quite sure. “The gods will not be denied! She shall get no rest until she receives the full recompense for her crimes! There shall be no place in the seven hells where she can hide from the Father’s justice!”

The watchmen seized him by the arms and began to drag him off, all while an angry mob pelted them with rotten leavings. The prophet was undeterred. “See how she yet declares herself an enemy of the Faith! The gods cry out for the rightful king!”

The unruly crowd was stirring itself into a chaotic mass. Not for the first time, a full-blown riot threatened to consume the streets of the capitol. More of the city watch elbowed their way through alleys to try and restore some semblance of calm. As they drew their swords, the streets prepared to open wide to receive another helping of blood.

High above, in a large room overlooking the scene, Cersei Lannister gazed down upon the chaos, a cup of Arbor Gold in her hand. She took a sip, surveying the chaos.

The queen still wore a black satin mourning gown but had begun to add touches of less gloomy ornamentation. A scarlet cape fastened with two golden lionesses flowed behind her. Her hair was growing, though it would still be some time before her beautiful mane of golden curls returned. Her fingers bore rings with fabulous gemstones and a thin ruby circlet with six proud, rearing golden lions served as her crown.

“Your grace,” said a quiet voice from behind.

Cersei turned to acknowledge Lord Qyburn. The Hand of the King looked a touch more reserved than usual. She smiled grimly.

“Lord Qyburn. No need to share the treasonous talk of the city’s filth,” she looked back at the window with disgust. “I can hear them just fine from here.”

The older man bowed his head respectfully. “Your grace, there has been a raven from the island of Dragonstone.” He hesitated. “An armada from across the Narrow Sea has arrived bearing an army.”

The queen stilled and fixed her Hand with an alarmed glare. “Foreign invaders?”

“Yes…And no, your grace. It seems the armada is made up of the greater part of the Iron Fleet. The heirs of House Greyjoy have evidently made common cause with Daenerys Targaryen.”

Cersei stared incredulously as though not quite comprehending. “The mad king’s daughter?” she asked dismissively. “She was wed to some Dothraki savage, I heard, years ago. What business does she have in Westeros?”

Qyburn hesitated again, unsure of how to break the bad news to his queen. For there was _a lot_ of bad news.

“She plans to reclaim her family’s ancestral throne.”

His words were met with a refrain of laughter. The queen had had precious little to laugh about in recent months, ever since her imprisonment. Even her ultimate victory of the High Sparrow and the Tyrell’s was overshadowed by the loss of the last of her children. But this time, she really did laugh, finally stifling it by taking a deep sip of wine. “The iron throne ceased to belong to the Targaryens when Robert overthrew them; one of the oaf’s more capable moments. The iron throne belongs to me. I am the wife and mother of the last three kings of Westeros. The realm belongs to House Lannister now.”

“Indeed, your grace. Yet, if the letter from her Hand is to be believed, Daenerys arrives not only with the iron fleet but with an army of Unsullied infantrymen from Slavers Bay and a united khalasar of Dothraki horselords. And…allegedly…three dragons.”

Cersei stared at Qyburn, unsure whether her had taken leave of his wits. She took another deep swig of wine. “There are no more dragons, not for over a hundred years. I have seen the skeletons of the last dragons. Robert had them stored beneath our very feet. Does she mean to mock our wits?”

The queen made no mention of armies Qyburn had spoken of.

“Perhaps not. There have been rumors and strange tales from the east for several years now; of slave revolts, fallen cities, and the rebirth of dragons. Most of the tales seem to have originated in Slavers Bay, though some reports come from as far east as Qarth. Whatever the exact truth, all the tales share one thing in common: Daenerys Targaryen.”

Cersei scoffed. “Very well. We have unrest in the city and a usurper coming by sea. Do you have any other glad tidings for me?”

Once more, the usually composed Hand hesitated. “Your grace… Sunspear reports that the Prince of Dorne is dead. Ellaria Sand, the former paramour of Prince Oberyn Martell, has raised up Prince Doran’s daughter Arianne as Princess of Dorne. The Red Viper’s daughters have pledged their swords to her cause. Both Dorne and the Reach have declared for House Targaryen.”

Cersei held her wine cup very tightly. The muscles in her neck constricted, showing how angry and, though she would never admit it, frightened she was. She stood in silence for several moments as she contemplated how precarious her position now was with three regions of Westeros already united against her with the possibility of foreign armies and, however unlikely, _dragons_ , added to the fray as well. Struggling to maintain her composure, she stared without blinking at Qyburn.

“Enemies to the south, enemies at sea, enemies in the city…is there anything else?” Her voice was dangerous and laced with poison.

Qyburn looked pained. “Another raven bears news from Winterfell. House Bolton suffered defeat on the battlefield, with no surviving heirs to the Bolton name. A most unusual assortment of allies has conspired to re-install the Starks as the power in Winterfell. Northern houses great and small have been joined by the Knights of the Vale and…a host of Wildlings from beyond the Wall. Together, they have acclaimed…” Once more, he hesitated, “Sansa Stark…as the Lady of Winterfell. Her bastard brother Jon Snow, they have acclaimed King in the North.”

Cersei’s face contorted into barely suppressed rage. She never stopped believing that Sansa Stark played a role in her son Joffrey’s death. To hear that she was safely ensconced behind the walls of Winterfell, far from her reach, was maddening. She barely registered the major news that, for the first time since the War of the Five Kings began, the Vale of Arryn had finally bestirred itself to choose a side. There were only enemies; enemies from nearly every direction.

She seized instead on the news that Ned Stark’s bastard had been declared a king. _Another traitor. Just like his father. Just like his brother. So many traitors, everywhere. The realm is full of them._ She could scarcely think of anything that could make the day worse.

“Thank you, Lord Qyburn, for bringing these matters to my attention. As always, I value your service.” Her words were delivered in a forced calm. Inside, the queen was shaking with fury.

The look of trepidation that now crossed Qyburn’s features was almost comical. “Your grace…”

Cersei snapped. “Oh, of course there’s something else! What is it? Out with it!”

“The raven from Dragonstone…the one from Daenerys Targaryen’s Hand…I am sorry, your grace…it was signed, Tyrion Lannister.”

A singular crash of shattered glass ended the Hand’s audience.

-OOO-

Waves crashed against the rugged, jagged terrain of Dragonstone: The Iron Fleet in its hundreds approached the island in formation while overhead, for the first time in centuries, the sound of dragon cries echoed off of ships and sea alike as Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion circled overhead.

Daenerys Targaryen was dressed in red and black sailing leathers, a three-headed dragon stitched on her breast. Beside her, Tyrion Lannister stood with the unusual sense that he was living through the pages of a future history. _The dragons have returned now. And Westeros will never be the same._ The immense dragon-styled fortress loomed overhead atop the island. Dany could not help the look of expectation and impatience etched on her young face. Everything she had ever waited for was before her. This is where she was born. This island where dragonlords once ruled was the first glimpse of Westeros the exile queen had ever seen.

She was home.

“Hundreds of years ago, before the conquest, Dragonstone was the seat of house Targaryen. More recently, it was held by Robert Baratheon’s brother, Lord Stannis.” Tyrion paused. “I’m told Stannis and his family perished, fighting in the North. So…they won’t be coming back to claim it.”

Daenerys said nothing. Tyrion looked at her, suppressing a smile. He went on.

“For centuries, the title ‘Prince of Dragonstone’ was held by the heir apparent to the iron throne. The last official claimant to that title was your brother Rhaegar. And you were born here.” He looked at her again. “It seems almost prophetic that you should begin your conquest from here, as Aegon did.”

“My brother Viserys told me that our ancestors fled here from Valyria because of a prophecy,” Dany said abruptly. “Or a vision…a dream, perhaps. I don’t really remember. He said our ancestor foretold a great destruction for Valyria, and so they fled.”

“Daenys the Dreamer, the histories call her,” the dwarf said with a curt nod.

For the first time, the queen looked away from the ever approaching island and faced her Hand. “Do you think it was a true prophecy then?”

Tyrion Lannister grimaced halfheartedly and shrugged. “I don’t know much about prophecies, I’m afraid. I’ve never been particularly devoted to the gods.” He looked at her significantly.

“But I am devoted to you, your grace, and your cause. You have the largest army ever known. You have three dragons. None of which should be possible, by the way. And yet here we are, sailing to the place where it all began for you and your family, with the same number of dragons Aegon had before his conquest. So…I’ve seen stranger things.”

The last Targaryen smiled as Tyrion suddenly became serious. “And the Doom was real, of course. The fires of the Fourteen Flames were unleashed in a single day upon old Valyria, wiping out the greatest empire the world has ever known. Prophecy or not, your ancestors were wise to leave when they did.”

Dany considered it thoughtfully. She knew very little about Old Valyria; only what tales she’d heard at Viserys’s heels as the fled from city to city when she but a little girl. The dragonlords who once ruled the Freehold had been the masters of the whole world. For thousands of years the Valyrians dominated land and sky with their dragons, forcing empires as ancient as any that had ever existed to buckle and break beneath them, and in the end, bowing to their will. That was how Old Ghis became the empty husk of civilization she had known in Slavers Bay. The blood of Valyria was the blood of the dragon, and every Valyrian family, great or small, had that blood coursing through their veins.

The Targaryen’s had been one of those small families once, of nothing but minor importance in the affairs of the great empire. But that all changed when the Doom came, ending the Valyrian Empire with the very formula that had forged it: Fire and blood. If Daenys the Dreamer dreamed true, then it seemed that the Targaryen’s had been destined to survive even when the rest of their people had perished. Was it only coincidence that she herself had not perished when twice had stepped into the flames? And as she made shore at Westeros at last, three hundred years after Aegon and his sisters claimed all the land from Dorne to the Wall, Daenerys could not help but feel that perhaps there _was_ some deeper meaning to it all; as if the dream that saved her family still reached down to her now. As once Valyria had united much of the world under its fiery banners, even now _she_ united Dothraki and the many peoples who made up her Unsullied. She had Naathi advising her, and Westerosi at her right hand. And with her three children, the ancient blood of dragon Valyria, she was poised to unite all the last of the Rhoynar to her banner, as well as First Men and Andal.

Was it too great a thing for the last dragon to be _destined_ to rule?

Perhaps in answer, Daenerys squinted up at the cliff in confusion.

“We sent Unsullied to scout ahead for Baratheon bannermen, did we not?”

“Several days ago,” replied Tyrion. “They reported that only a few commoners and fisherfolk are still here. Whatever garrison Lord Stannis might have left behind have long since fled.” He squinted suspiciously at the hilltop.

“But evidently someone has lit a fire.”

Far above, a roaring inferno blazed, sending smoke spiraling into the air.

They exchanged looks. Tyrion squared his jaw. “I’ll summon Grey Worm and Lord Varys.”

-OOO-

The tide of battle was against them.

 _The Redhand_ rang with the noise of war. Steel clashed and clattered as ironmen swarmed the decks. Sword and axe met with their sharp steelsong, the shouts, grunts, and screams of the dying forming a macabre harmony. Nearby, a squire Lord Paxter new by sight if not by name, a boy of the Cider Hall Fossoways fell with a girlish scream as an ugly axe took him in the arm, cutting down to the bone and nearly severing the limb. His opponent made quick work after that, mercifully opening his throat with a backhanded swipe.

Lord Redwyne did not know how things had gone so badly. The numbers had been in their favor. They outnumbered the invaders by more than half. But the ironmen fought like demons, possessed of one thought and one purpose, and it was they who were prevailing. And that was not to mention the half human mongrels the Crow’s Eye had brought with him.

Large, hairy men who could only be from Ib lumbered around like beasts, bringing men down as oft with their own hands as they did with a weapon. The decks beneath were slick with spilled blood, and the surrounding waters greedily received the bodies of the dead and dying alike. The dark of the night had been brightened somewhat by the blazing of fires as ships were put to the torch. A few of them, Paxter saw, were Greyjoy ships, but it was his own fleet that was serving as kindling the most. He cursed for leaving the bulk of his ships anchored in harbor; he had not thought his full strength necessary for such a paltry ironborn raid.

Lord Redwyne kept his grip tight on his sword, constantly circling to see what threat was near.

But the shadow gave no warning.

Paxter Redwyne was knocked off his feet by an impact on his right side, sending him crashing into the gore spattered deck. By the grace of the gods he kept his sword.

Winded, he rolled on his side, bringing himself to his knees, then to his feet shakily, to see who had accosted him. The figure was tall and black clad, with dark hair that fell loosely to his shoulders. His beard was dark and closely trimmed, allowing the smug cruelty of his features to shine through. He was smiling. Amid the sounds of slaughter and the pleas of tortured men, a small, but noticeable smile played across lips as dark and blue as bruises.

The Crow’s Eye wore an eyepatch as black as his garb. The seeing eye was sharp, missing nothing, and blazed with a blue so striking it was almost captivating.

“My thanks, my lord, for the gift of your fleet,” Euron said with calm.

 _He thinks he has already won._ “I have not surrendered yet,” Lord Paxter replied stoutly.

Euron drew a sword shorter than Paxter’s own. “Your people make fine wines but poor fighters. But we all have our roles to play. You were made to sell wine to rich lords; I was made to rule them.”

“You talk mighty large for a man with such a small sword,” Lord Redwyne returned bravely.

Euron’s blue eye danced with amusement. “And you talk mighty well for a dead man.”

Lord Paxter yelled furiously, lunging for the invader. The Crow’s Eye met his steel with his own.

-OOO-

A detachment of Dothraki and Unsullied accompanied the royal party as they reached the clifftop summit. Tyrion stepped forward to stand beside the queen as Varys looked on. The fire was still crackling powerfully. Suddenly, it seemed to lessen in brightness and the tower-like flames lowered to reveal the hazy outline of a single figure.

“In the name of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of Dragonstone and heir to the iron throne, identify yourself and state your business on this island,” said Tyrion commandingly.

The figure, clad in red from crown to foot, stepped out from behind the fire and gazed at them expectantly. Tyrion had never seen a woman quite like her. She was beautiful but bizarre. The features of her heart shaped face were soft and feminine and pleasant to look at. Yet her eyes were as red as the fire she had built and there was an unnaturalness to them that stirred something uncertain within him. There was an eeriness to her. The only time Tyrion had felt anything remotely comparable had been at the Wall, what seemed another lifetime ago.

“I have seen you often in the flames of late, my lord,” the woman said softly. “A snarling lion with great black wings and the poisonous tongue of a serpent.”

She looked to Daenerys. “Your grace.” She bowed her head. “The Lord of Light sent me ahead of you. We have much to discuss.”

Dany looked appraisingly at her. “The red priests always spoke favorably of me in Essos,” she said. “Yet I wasn’t aware that the Lord of Light had many followers in Westeros.”

“There was _one_ prominent adherent of the Red god, your grace,” said Varys softly. The eunuch did not move from where he stood, nor did he look at the red woman, but his tone was sharp and urgent. “On this very island, in fact. Stannis Baratheon consorted with a red priestess before his death.”

Daenerys looked from Varys to the woman. “You serve House Baratheon?” she asked.

The woman’s confident gaze faltered. “Once, your grace,” she said with an odd expression. “But Lord Stannis is dead, and his house along with him. The Lord sent me to Stannis so that I might glimpse…another. And now he has sent me to you.”

“You don’t think it odd to admit to serving my enemies?”

“They are dead, your grace. And your enemies are not at all whom you think. I beg you to allow me to speak to you. If you ever hope to sit the iron throne, you will need to hear my words.”

Tyrion cut in. “I don’t really think that-”

“I will hear you,” Dany said. “Tomorrow. But now I have an armada to dock and an island to secure. If you wish to stay in the castle overnight, you may accompany us. But under no circumstances are you to leave Dragonstone until first we have spoken.”

The woman inclined her head. “Of course, your grace. Your hospitality is appreciated.”

Daenerys nodded. “Tomorrow then.”

-OOO-

“Just…kill me!”

Euron shook his head, the half smile never leaving his strange, bruised lips. The battle was over. The Redwyne survivors had been lined up on the beach with their hands bound. Lord Paxter was situated on his knees in front of them.”

“You are too valuable to lose just yet, my lord,” said Euron. There is still a fleet that I want, and your castle, of course. You will yield those up for me. Then, perhaps, I will kill you. But not yet. There is to be a feast, my lord. And it is poor manners for a lord not to be present when he throws a feast for his guests.”

The King of the Isles retrieved a small vial and took a swig. Fresh traces of blue stained the skin above his lips.

“And I am _very_ hungry.”

-OOO-

Far, far away, in a snow covered greenwood, Brandon Stark gasped and felt ice in his veins.


End file.
